Jerome K. Jerome, 1889 (born May 2, 1859; died June 14, 1927-68 years old)
This was one of Mom’s Time Reading Program editions. I remember her reading it and saying it was the funniest book she had ever read. I kept it when she moved, and I agree, it is one of the funniest books I’ve ever read! I LOVED IT!!!! Jerome K. Jerome is hilarious!!!
The book is about a river trip up the Thames River, from London to Oxford. He (J.), two of his friends (George and Harris), and his dog, a Fox-Terrier named Montmorency, take a two-week vacation (a fortnight) up the river in a boat. It’s 211 pages of fun! Every single scene, from the gathering of supplies to the final scene in a French restaurant with full stomachs looking out at the rain, is laugh-out-loud funny.
There is a sober moment, when they come upon a dead woman floating in the river, and he tells her story as they come to find it out, with a lot of care and sadness and regret. But mostly it is funny. I especially like his description of work and his attitude toward it in Chapter 15: “It seemed to me that I was doing more than my fair share of the work on this trip, and I was beginning to feel strongly on the subject.
“It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me; the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart.
“You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become a passion with me; my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly an inch of room for any more. I shall have to throw out a wing soon.
“And I am careful of my work, too. Why, some of the work that I have by me now has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn’t a finger-mark on it. I take a great pride in my work; I take it down now and then and dust it. No man keeps his work in a better state of preservation than I do.”
He describes many English river-side towns. One of the last ones he describes, I looked up (Clifton Hampden), and the inn (the Barley Mow) was built in the 1300’s, and is still in use and still charming. Here are his words from page 197 in Chapter 18: “Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village, old-fashioned, peaceful and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is rich and beautiful. If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot do better than put up at the Barley Mow. It is, without exception, I should say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river. It stands on the right of the bridge, quite away from the village. Its low-pitched gables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-book appearance, while inside it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied.”
A beautiful passage at the end of Chapter 10; he starts out funny telling about trying to sleep in the boat, and then sees the beautiful stars, and talks about the comfort of the night, a great Presence, and then a story of a knight who got lost:
“The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I would step out into the cool night air. I slipped on what clothes I could find about–some of my own, and some of George’s and Harris’s–and crept under the canvas on to the bank.
“It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk and left the quiet earth alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush, while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister–conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish human ears to catch the sound.
“They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temples of the god they have been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoing dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping, half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.
“And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our fevered head, and turns out little tear-stained face up to hers, and smiles, and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
“Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night’s heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
“Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell the mystery they know.
“Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grew very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their way therein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to lighten the gloom and sadness.
“And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode, missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more; and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
“Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they had been journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night, as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great hall, and drank a loving measure, there came the comrade they had lost, and greeted them. His clothes were ragged, like a beggar’s, and many sad wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great radiance of deep joy.
“And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he told them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
“Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo ! through the savage gloom there came to him a stately maiden, and took him by the hand and led him on through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our wayworn knight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the depth.
“And the vision faded, and the knight kneeling upon the ground, thanked the good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he had seen the vision that lay there hid.
“And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that the good knight saw therein we may not speak nor tell.”
Jerome was only 30 when he wrote this book. What a wonderful, funny book! I will keep it forever, but if I can find a different copy with a different binding, get it, because the binding on the Time-Life book is terrible – you have to forcibly hold it open or it closes.